It seems that everyone had some book or reading that has made a visceral impact. When a story, even a fiction one, stirs up a disquiet that lingers. I had several. In elementary school, it was Charlotte's death in Charlotte's Web. Middle school brought Vonnegut's Harrison Bergeron and Golding's Lord of the Flies.
But ninth grade takes the cake.
In my freshman English class, we read The Lottery by Shirley Jackson, a short story where a town draws straws and then publicly stones one person each year. I was utterly disturbed by it. For weeks afterward, I replayed lines from the story over and over in my mind until I'd frightened myself so badly that I couldn't sleep.
It was too much; there were too many feelings.
Overwhelm is not always uncommon for me, but it does feel like books drag it out a bit more. The images from these books last a little longer, and I can nearly always recall where I was and how I felt when I first read them.
But overwhelm need not always be negative. I have some lovely memories, too. I still remember learning to read and the thrilling moment it started to make sense. Or also freshman year, crying on the couch as my mother read to me the last few chapters of To Kill a Mockingbird, now my very favorite book. Or just a few years ago reading late into the night and waking up early the next morning to finish a book before work because I simply could not put it down.
All too much. Too many feelings.
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